Edmund
by ChocolateIsMyDrug
Summary: Regency genderswap. As if Edmund Woodhouse were not miserable and humbled enough by the events of the past year, a new realisation causes further consternation.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** I know I shouldn't be posting a new story when I haven't finished the others yet – but I couldn't resist. I just had to get this one out there.

I love, love, _love_ Austen gender-swap fanfic. But I'm not great at the whole modern version thing (definitely can't compete with the awesome ones here), and I like the idea of a Regency gender-swap even more (you have to work harder to preserve the character dynamic when the societal roles for males and females were so fixed) – but I'm too lazy to do the whole novel, so instead I'll just do the ending.

This fic was born from my musings on how Edmund from _Mansfield Park_ is a little like Emma in how blind he is about his own feelings (some might argue that he wasn't in love with Fanny the whole time, but I like to think he was – otherwise I'd really dislike him) – hence the nods to MP. After all, it's not like a clueless "Edmund" is anything new to us, right? ;-)

So that you can imagine the main characters, here are some pictures (delete spaces in URL):

http: / i170 .photobucket .com /albums /u251 /niyer09 /dade14 .jpg (imagine in waistcoat and cravat)

http: / i170 .photobucket .com /albums /u251 /niyer09 /romoladarkhair .jpg (imagine in Regency dress with her _Emma_ hairstyle)

Would love to hear what you think, as always!

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**Edmund**

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_'From family attachment and habit, and thorough excellence of mind, he had loved her and watched over her from a girl, with [...] an anxiety for her doing right which no other creature had at all shared._

_In spite of all her faults she knew she was dear to him; might she not say very dear?_

_[However], when the suggestions of hope […] presented themselves, she could not presume to indulge them. Harriet Smith might not think herself unworthy of being peculiarly, exclusively, passionately loved by Mr. Knightley. _She_ could not._

_She had no hope, nothing to deserve the name of hope.'_

- "Emma", pg. 330

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**Chapter One**

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Edmund had been a fool. Worse: a confounded idiot who had stubbornly insisted on blinding himself to his own feelings for months – nay, years! And now due to his own shortsightedness he was to lose her forever.

How could he have failed to see it? He had always prided himself on his quickness and his ability to perceive things which others did not notice – and although the events of the past year had been enough to shake his faith in his own judgment, he still could not believe he had missed this.

After all, he had known her all her life, and she had always been his dearest friend. They had grown up together, she perhaps faster than him although he was a few years her senior – in their relationship she had always been the sensible one, the one to guide him, to check him when his impulsive behaviour threatened to lead to undesirable consequences for himself and others around him.

Often – _too _often – he had not heeded her words, instead purposely acting against her cautions with the laughing reply that he was older than her and knew well enough what he was about, thank you very much. Almost invariably he would find his way back to her, licking his wounds, and it was a mark of her character that she never lorded it over him that she had been right. He loved that about her.

In fact, he loved everything about her, even the things that exasperated him. He loved that she was genuinely kind to everyone around her; that she insisted on taking an active role in helping her father run Donwell Abbey, even if others thought it was not a suitable pursuit for a lady; that she always had time to spare for his mother and humoured all her foibles with a good-natured cheerfulness which nobody else could equal; that she was his friend, had remained steadfastly and loyally his friend over the years, despite all his shortcomings. In his perversity he had simultaneously rebelled against her advice and longed for her approval while she had been exasperated by him but at the same time anxious for him to do right.

Perhaps their friendship had been unusual, dysfunctional, even – but he could not imagine his life without her. In fact without her his life would have a void which nothing and nobody else could fill. What would he do if he did not have her always around him, visiting Hartfield at all hours as if ever willing to change her home for theirs? What would he do if their camaraderie, their teasing banter, their conversations light and serious alike were to come to an end because of her imminent departure? How could he bear such a loss?

He had felt physically sick at the thought when Henry had first told him of his intentions towards her, and although at first he had tried to fool himself into thinking it was his brotherly concern for her future that had provoked such a reaction, he could not blind himself for long with that, for everything in him cried out that he was _not_ Georgiana Knightley's brother.

Why was it so much worse for Henry to be in love with her instead of Maria? And why was the evil so dreadfully increased by his having some hope of a return? It had darted through him with the speed of an arrow that nobody must marry her but himself!

Too late now – all too late. She had gone to visit her sister in London, and Henry had set off to follow her and find an opportunity to propose. He had no hope that Henry's suit would fail. For some time now he had observed for himself the growing friendship – or attraction, or whatever it was – between them, even if he had deceived himself as to its true import. He had even approved of their friendship at the time, thinking that it would have the good effects of drawing one out of his shell and forcing the other to revise her initially negative opinion of him.

If it were not for him, Henry would never even have met Georgiana. And now he was going to take her away from him, and his misery was – if possible – deepened by the reflection, always at the back of his mind that it had been all his own doing.

If he could have seen then what it would have led to, what would he not have done differently? For one thing he would not have dissuaded Henry from Maria Roberts as he had done; for another he would not have wasted so much time fancying himself in love with Fanny Churchill; for yet another, he might have spent his time in attempting to woo her, trying to change her long-standing, friendly regard for him into something more.

He thought – oh very well, _hoped –_ that it might not even have been very difficult. His brother had managed it with her sister, after all. And he had always declared that he would never marry – perhaps out of sheer amusement that he loved her enough to become a hypocrite, she might have accepted him.

'Edmund, dear, are you sure you should not come away from that window? You might catch a chill.'

He immediately rose from his position in the window seat where he had been gazing out listlessly through the rain which had been pouring relentlessly for the past three days as if to reflect his own emotions. 'Of course, Mama,' he said, coming to sit beside her. He sighed heavily. 'I was just thinking of Georgiana,' he said quietly, and then started to realise he had spoken aloud.

Thankfully the connection seemed quite natural to his mother. 'Indeed,' she sighed. 'If the weather is so dreadful here, it must be infinitely worse for the poor child in London. I do so wish she had not taken it into her head to go.'

_You and me both, Mama_, he thought glumly, but said nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Happy new year, everyone!

Hope you like this chapter – let me know what you think!

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**Chapter Two**

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"_I cannot make speeches, Emma. If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But you know what I am. You hear nothing but truth from me. I have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other woman in England would have borne it."_

- "Emma", pg. 406

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The very next day the rain cleared up. The clouds which had been hanging threateningly over them for the past few days had all but disappeared, and the sun reappeared – it finally felt like summer again. Edmund had been cooped up indoors for the past few days, a prisoner both of the house and of his own mind which plagued him by bringing forth the recollection of everything he had done wrong in the past year.

All the mischief had centred in his own arrogance to think of meddling in others' lives as an amusement to fill his boredom. Perhaps it was partly because being master of Hartfield was much less absorbing than being master of Donwell Abbey must be to Mr. Knightley, and Georgiana, who was also very much a part of its running – it being a much larger estate which also comprised of farms in addition to the far more numerous cottages of its tenants.

Still, whatever the cause, it did not change the fact that his own actions had brought him to where he was now: miserable, despairing and longing for some distraction. It would be a relief to him to have some change – _any _change – and he had never been more eager for a ride outside. Of course his mother would not wish him to risk going on horseback after it had just rained and the ground was so slippery and muddy, so he would defer that and walk instead. Even to breathe in fresh air would be highly welcome to him.

And when Mrs. Perry made an opportune call on Mrs. Woodhouse, Edmund took the opportunity of spending the disengaged hour out of doors. However he had hardly made it past the lawn when he perceived Georgiana entering the grounds through the large back gate and coming towards him. He had been thinking of her only the moment before as unquestionably sixteen miles distant. There was time only for the quickest arrangement of mind. He must be collected and calm, and not betray the turmoil inside him. In half a minute they were together.

The initial conversation was constrained and subdued on both sides. He asked after their mutual relations in London – they were well; when had she left them? Only that morning. He hoped she had left her father well at Donwell Abbey; she had.

An awkward silence fell, and it occurred to Edmund as he sneaked a sidelong glance at her, that she did not look happy. Could it be that she was not yet engaged to Henry? Perhaps he had called on her in London, and she had been pained by the manner in which he had been received by her brother and sister. But no – the London Woodhouses both liked Henry and would never have treated him coldly because of their relative disparity in status.

But she seemed often looking at him, and looked as if she wished to say something but knew not how to begin. He thought she might be looking for encouragement to begin confiding in him about her hopes and fears concerning Henry, and his heart quailed within him at the thought of having to listen and lend a supportive ear for that. He could not – _would _not begin that conversation; she would have to do it all herself. But he could not bear this silence – with them it was unnatural. He resolved to speak. 'You have some news to hear, now that you are back, which will rather surprise you,' he said, trying to smile.

She looked up at him enquiringly. 'Have I?' she said quietly. 'What is this news?'

'It is a wedding,' he said, trying to sound enthusiastic. He liked this topic; it would no doubt occupy them for some time – he would answer her exclamations of surprise, her questions, her conjectures – and hopefully she would be distracted from broaching the subject of Henry. 'Fanny Churchill and James Fairfax are to be married.'

'Oh,' she said, but she didn't sound surprised. 'Yes, I know – Henry told me of it yesterday when he called on us in Brunswick Square.'

Edmund suddenly felt as if all the air had left his lungs. So Henry _had _called on her, just as he had intended, which meant...

Georgiana slipped her arm through his and pressed it, and when she spoke she sounded earnest. 'Time _will _heal your wound, Edmund. Your own excellent sense – your exertions for your mother's sake – I know you will not allow yourself–' Then she sighed, looking frustrated at her inability to find the right words. 'You know I never thought she was right for you, but I never thought she could deceive you so. She gives all women a bad name.'

For a moment he could only stare at her, wishing that he could act on his impulse and kiss her for showing such tender consideration for his feelings. But much as it gratified him, it was based on a mistaken assumption. 'You are very kind, Georgie,' he said, 'but I must set you right. I admit that I was totally blind to their attachment, and it led me to act by them in a way that I must always be ashamed of, but I can assure you that I have no other reason to regret that I did not know their secret earlier.'

She raised her eyes to him suddenly, eagerly. 'Do you really mean that, Edmund? You are not miserable about Fanny Churchill?'

She deserved an explanation from him, even if he would rather do almost anything else. It was hard to have to lower himself still further in her opinion. He sighed in heavy resignation. 'Not at all – I was never really attached to her. I know,' he said, as she opened her mouth to protest, 'I _know_ my behaviour gave that impression, and I am heartily ashamed of it. I never really cared for her, but she paid me attention, and I allowed myself to appear pleased. Many things aided the temptation: she was Mrs. Taylor's daughter, she was very pretty, and I always found her agreeable, but–' he sighed again– 'it all centres in this last: my vanity was flattered. I liked that this mysterious, wealthy, pretty, highly eligible young woman seemed to like _me_ – and so when she flirted with me, I responded in kind.'

He paused, hoping she would say something, but she was listening in perfect silence, and he didn't know what she was thinking. 'You're going to despise me when you learn, Georgie, that even though I still behaved as I did, for some time now I have had no idea that Miss Churchill's attentions to me were anything serious – I thought it was merely a habit with her – that it was just her way. Now I know that it was a blind, to conceal her real situation with Mr. Fairfax; and it was effective – she blinded everyone about her, including me – except that I was _not _blinded – that it was my good fortune – that, in short, somehow or other I was safe from her.'

He had hoped for an answer here, a few words to say that his conduct was intelligible at least, but it took her a few moments. When she spoke, her tone was more tolerably her usual, and the silence seemed due to her taking in his explanation. 'I suppose I wish her well then. She and Mr. Fairfax will be happy together, I hope.' Then she smiled suddenly. 'Not as happy as Henry, though, I think – I've never seen anyone smile so much.'

Edmund really felt physically sick at her words, and he looked at her in anguish. 'Why was Henry happy?' he finally asked.

She looked up at him curiously, frowning slightly. 'Didn't he tell you? He's engaged.'

He shut his eyes for a second, trying to push down the torrent of feelings which were clamouring for his attention – anguish, jealousy, hopelessness, despair, the burning desire to tell her everything, to lay bare his own heart... Suddenly he found himself reaching out and clutching her hand in his. 'Oh Georgie,' he burst out before he could stop himself, 'don't tell me that I'm too late; don't tell me you've engaged yourself to him; haven't I a hope? Have I no chance of ever succeeding?'

He stopped in his eagerness to look the question, but apart from her profound astonishment, he could not read her expression. He half-wished he could take the words and stuff them back into his mouth, but it was too late for that. He had begun, and now he must blunder his way through to the finish. 'I know I've made mistakes,' he said, 'and I know I've been so stupid and blind, about everything – about Henry, about Fanny and James, about my own feelings – _everything_. I know I haven't always listened to you, but your opinion has always mattered to me more than anybody's.'

He paused, trying to swallow, but his mouth was uncomfortably dry. Still she said nothing, and her eyes never left his face. 'You know what I am, Georgie,' he said softly. 'You know me better than anyone; you always have. You know all my faults; you know all my weaknesses; you know what my behaviour has always been to you. I've teased you and ignored you, I've flouted your advice too many times to count, I haven't made any efforts to woo you properly – God knows I've been a very indifferent lover.' He paused, smiling ruefully. 'I'm doing a terrible job of this, aren't I?'

She spoke for the first time, her voice sounding a little shaky. 'What do you mean?'

'I think I was supposed to extol your virtues – instead I spent the whole speech talking about myself. That's me all over – I'm self-centred; and vain, and just a little arrogant sometimes.'

She made a noise that was half-laugh, half-sob. 'Just a _little?'_

He would have laughed if his heart hadn't been lodged in his throat. 'Very well, a _lot._ I'm all of that and more, and yet you've put up with me – you've always been there, and you've borne all my freaks and nonsense as no other woman in England would have borne them. So bear with the truths I would tell you now, dearest Georgiana, as well as you have borne with them – although the manner, perhaps, may have as little to recommend them. I think I've been in love with you ever since we were children, although I only realised it a short while ago. That's why I couldn't stand the idea of you and James Fairfax when Mr. Taylor put it into my head so many months ago; that's why I can't bear the thought of you being engaged to–'

Suddenly he stopped, colouring. Carried on by his momentum he had forgotten that simple fact – Georgiana was engaged to another. There was absolutely no point in speaking all of this; yet like the idiot that he was, he had blundered forward, probably ruining their friendship forever in the process.

'Edmund,' she said slowly, and her voice was quite distinct, 'I am not engaged to anybody.'

His eyes snapped up to her face in wild hope, searching her expression for the truth. 'You are not?' he cried. 'Then would you give me your hand in... sorry, I know you could not so quickly... that is, would you let me do what I should have done years ago and court you properly?' He prided himself on having gotten out the sentence at least semi-coherently.

She smiled up at him warmly, eyes shining, and he stared down at her, mesmerised, hardly able to believe that she received the idea positively. 'Edmund,' she said, and her eyes danced in amusement, 'I have a better idea. Why don't you go back a little and finish what you were originally going to ask?'

His eyes widened in astonishment, and then he laughed joyfully. 'You mean, you really – then of course; would you – that is, I wanted to ask – if you could possibly–' Under her laughing gaze he blushed deeply. 'Georgie,' he said, his eyes beseeching her to understand him, 'you know I can't make speeches.'

She raised a playful eyebrow. 'Evidently not.' Then she took pity on him, and smiled softly as she stepped forward to slowly bring her hands up to cradle his face. He let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding and closed his eyes. 'My answer, my lovely, silly, troublesome Edmund,' she said, 'is _yes_, _of course_ I will marry you.'

There were two ways to react to that: Edmund could take offence at the fact that two out of three of the adjectives she had used to describe himself could be argued to be negative, or he could do what he had been wanting to do from the moment she had entered the Hartfield grounds and kiss the living daylights out of her.

For almost the first time in his life, Edmund made the sensible decision.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Oops… kind of forgot about this story, sorry. Will try and finish it off in a more timely fashion. Please review with your thoughts!

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**Chapter Three**

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'_Within half an hour, he had passed from a thoroughly distressed state of mind, to something so like perfect happiness, that it could bear no other name._

Her_ change was equal. – This one half hour had given to each the same precious certainty of being beloved, had cleared from each the same degree of ignorance, jealousy or distrust.'_

- "Emma", pg. 419

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From a distance, the fair-haired young man and the dark-haired young woman sitting together on the bench by the lake with their heads bent close, looked like the inhabitants of some idyllic pastoral landscape.

From a closer vantage point, Mr. Woodhouse and Miss Knightley would have been the Highbury gossip's dream come true could he or she have witnessed them. They sat close, and spoke with the freedom and ease that came from a lifelong friendship; however, there was some new delight, some wondrous change in the way their eyes lingered on each other's faces with a new softness and their fingers were decidedly intertwined.

For Edmund it was strange and yet completely natural at the same time. He felt like his whole life had been spent in loving Georgiana, and although there was still the highly agreeable shock of having to accustom himself to being far happier than he deserved, there was also the deep sense that this had been in the making their whole lives and that nothing could have prevented it (even if he had unknowingly made a fairly thorough attempt at it).

Georgiana's smile was irrepressible and her cheeks were flushed with delight after listening to his woeful confessions. 'So you thought Henry was talking about _me_?'

Edmund knew that he had not mistaken or misheard Henry; the facts had been all too blatantly discussed between them as he had tried to find out the extent to which Henry had managed to succeed with Georgiana. However, clearly something had happened between then and now, because Henry was – by all accounts most happily – engaged to Maria Roberts, who had happened to be staying with the London Woodhouses on his sister-in-law's invitation. He decided in that moment that there was no need to pursue that topic further, for Georgiana's belief might as well be the truth now. 'I must have misunderstood him,' was all he said aloud about it. 'But I am glad of it, for that was what alerted me to my own feelings. That is _my _story,' he finished, looking down at her curiously, hoping that she would now elaborate on the strange, unaccountable, _wonderful_ circumstance of her loving him in return.

She took the hint, laughter sparkling in her eyes. 'I'm afraid it's terribly incompatible with the accepted nature of romance which novels would have us believe in,' she said, mock-apologetically, 'but I've known that I have been in love with you for far longer than you knew of your feelings – it started when Fanny Churchill arrived, or perhaps it even began when she was expected to come.'

Edmund knew he should not be so ridiculously pleased as he was, but to think that Georgiana had loved him so long, had loved him even then when he had deserved it even less than he did now, was more dangerously flattering than any of Fanny Churchill's flirtatious compliments. As she rested her head on his shoulder, he tightened the hold of his arm around her.

'I saw my life at Hartfield in a different light,' she continued, 'exposed to others, vulnerable and defenceless if they chose to plunder it. Our easy, cheerful manner of meeting so often and talking of anything and everything, the feeling that I was welcome at Hartfield at any time – all that would be over. If you married, someone else would be the first, the chosen, the dearest, the wife, the friend to whom you would turn – someone else would be the one whose society you valued above all others; above _mine._ I don't think I realised how important it was to me to be the _first_ in your affections until there was the dread of being supplanted by _her_.'

Then the shadow of her old heartache crossed her face as she lifted her head off his shoulder to look up at him. 'I saw you, as I thought, enamoured of Miss Churchill – and it was all the worse because I never believed her to deserve you. I knew you could be so much more than she could ever have any idea of, and I felt that you were being influenced by her for the worse, and were slowly becoming like her.'

Edmund's smile faded as his own shameful behaviour was brought once more to the forefront of his mind. His eyes met Georgiana's for a moment, before she rested her head on his shoulder once more. The mention of Box Hill did not pass her lips, and she moved her explanation on quickly for fear of having given pain. 'That was why I went to London,' she said softly. 'I could not bear to watch you with her anymore, and so I thought if I spent some time away from you I could learn to be indifferent.' She squeezed his hand, smiling slightly. 'Just so you know, it was utterly useless – the feelings don't go away.'

Edmund pressed his lips to the top of her head, loving her for being so honest with him when there appeared to be a pervading belief in existence that a woman should never admit to partiality for a man beginning until after he had proposed to her. But then they had never exactly been conventional – and he was glad of it.

* * *

Edmund had been pacing nervously outside Mr. Knightley's study for the past half hour, agitated despite Georgiana's attempts to calm him down. 'What if he doesn't give his blessing?' he asked anxiously. 'What if he hates me? What if he refuses his consent?'

She took both his hands in hers, forcing him to stop his pacing. 'Edmund,' she said emphatically, 'I _know _Papa loves you like a son already. He's just teasing you by making you wait. Don't worry – he _knows_ how happy you make me; he would never refuse.'

Edmund sighed softly, leaning his forehead against hers. 'Thank you,' he said, moving forward slightly to place a soft kiss upon her lips.

'Mr. Woodhouse, if you could unhand my daughter, I would be happy to receive you in my study now.' The dry comment caused Edmund to immediately jump away from her.

The blood drained out of his face before it rushed back with a vengeance, causing his ears to turn pink. He swallowed, but held his head high, venturing no apology. He loved Georgiana, and he knew his own behaviour after their engagement had always been gentlemanly, despite a strong temptation founded on his own desires and the instinctive knowledge that she would not protest if he took some liberties. However, his mother had brought him up to be a man of honour, and whatever his other faults, his principles had never been lacking.

He turned to look at Georgiana one last time before he followed her father inside, and she gave him an encouraging smile. Once he was inside the study, Mr. Knightley shut the door. 'Sit, Mr. Woodhouse,' he said curtly, gesturing to one of the chairs in front of his desk.

Edmund sat, with the feeling that this proceeding was somewhat ludicrous. To Mr. Knightley he had had always been Eddie or Ed – even "Edmund" had been reserved only for formal occasions.

For several seconds Mr. Knightley regarded him sternly over steepled fingers. Then he began speaking. 'I gather that you wish to marry my daughter; is that correct?' Edmund nodded, somewhat nervous at the older man's demeanour. 'You do realise, Mr. Woodhouse, that you have been making her dreadfully unhappy for the past several months?'

Edmund blanched. 'She told you about that?'

Mr. Knightley raised an eyebrow. 'She is my daughter, Mr. Woodhouse. I could hardly have failed to observe it. There were other things I did not fail to observe also.'

Edmund coloured deeply. He knew that he and Fanny Churchill had widely wagged tongues and raised conjectures with their behaviour. 'I cannot make any excuses, sir,' he said, forcing himself to meet the older man's eyes. 'I was wrong about many things, and I am sincerely sorry that any actions of mine hurt Georgiana. I love her, sir, and I would never have intentionally given her pain.' It had been so natural with him to call her by her Christian name that it slipped out of his mouth now; belatedly he wished he had stuck to formality – it might have served him better in this circumstance.

But Mr. Knightley nodded slowly, seemingly ruminating on his words. By and by, he looked at Edmund with a glint of amusement in his eyes. 'Will that do?' he asked.

Edmund's brow creased in confusion. 'Will what do, sir?'

'Have I fulfilled my role as the stern and forbidding father well enough, do you think, Ed? Or should I make you squirm in your seat a little more before I give my consent?' He was now smiling, and Edmund's face similarly broke into a grin, as relieved as it was happy.

'I think that should be sufficient, sir,' he said, laughing.

'Very well – then I can only offer you my sincerest congratulations and my confidence in your future happiness. Take good care of her, now.'

Edmund nodded in acquiescence, unable to stop smiling as they shook hands. If only his mother would receive the news so well, then he would have nothing to wish for.


End file.
